Black Mischief

  Black Mischief

  Book Two of the African Trilogy

  Carl Hancock

  Carl Hancock was born in Aberdare, then a mining valley town in South Wales. After seven years in the local grammar school, he moved on to university where he studied for degrees in classics and in English and became a teacher.

  His career took him to secondary schools in Britain, Cyprus and Malta. Latterly, he enjoyed six years in Pembroke House, a preparatory school up-country in the Kenya part of the Great Rift Valley, sometimes known as the White Highlands.

  He has two grown-up children and currently lives on a small farm in the Adelaide Hills.

  Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,

  ABN: 46 119 415 842

  23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley, Victoria

  3150 Australia

  Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920, Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742

  E-mail: author@sidharta.com.au

  First published in Australia July 2011

  This edition published July 2011

  Copyright © Carl Hancock 2011

  Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

  The right of Carl Hancock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Hancock, Carl

  Black Mischief

  ISBN: 978-1-921829-29-1

  Digital edition published by

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  ISBN: 9781742980911 (ePub)

  Conversion by Winking Billy

  Glossary

  askari guard

  dawa medicine

  duka shop

  fundi expert

  Hakuna matata no worries

  jua kali improvised

  kwaheri goodbye

  matatu minibus taxi

  matumba market

  mbati corrugated iron

  mbaye thief

  mzee old man

  mzungo stranger

  posho milled and boiled maize

  shamba small farm

  wananchi ordinary people

  tackies (local usage) trainers

  To the ‘wananchi’ of Kenya. You are the talented but undervalued heartbeat of your country. You are the hope that someday soon your country will have the leadership you need and deserve.

  Chapter One

  t was the biggest party seen at Muthaiga in years. That was no surprise. After all, Abel Rubai was the richest man in the country and he wanted something extra special to celebrate his oldest boy’s engagement. One thing still puzzled him. As he watched his future daughter-in-law make her entrance into the L-shaped dining room with her family, he could see again what a prize Julius had won himself. Only, how had his boy managed to snare this girl? Why had she suddenly broken off her engagement to Tom McCall, the cocky farmer boy from Naivasha? Abel had always believed that there wasn’t a woman in Kenya who didn’t have her price, but this Rebecca was different. She was a beauty and the people loved her. She was a wealthy girl in her own right after her singing successes in the United States of America. She would bring a lot to the family. Maybe, from now on, the wananchi would be a bit less suspicious of him. And, just maybe, she would help turn Julius around from being the self-centred brat he had been for most of his adult life into the kind of son and heir he had planned for, one who would make the many advantages he had been gifted with pay off in a big way.

  Simon Liwatt, the head porter at the club, was having a quiet night. He was at his desk close to the normally popular back entrance to the club. For this special night the guests had come through the front entrance and for the hour that the party had been going, he had not had a single visitor. He could hear the fun and frolicking going on in the room next door, but he was indifferent to the noise, the laughter of the rich folks having a jolly good time. But at last his lonely haven was invaded. A door from the dining room was opened. Before he could look up from the ledger where he was checking some lists, a voice from the figure whose large shape was casting its shadow across his desk addressed him curtly.

  ‘Keys. Drinks room. Now!’

  There was no need for Simon to look up to find out who was trying to break a strict club rule and forcing him to do the same. He recognised the voice and the manner. He reached across to a row of keys and placed the relevant one on the counter. It was no hard task for the head porter to mask the anger he felt for Julius Rubai under a bland, submissive exterior. He was a master of hiding his true feelings when need be.

  ‘Here we are, sir.’

  The most unpopular member of the club strode out of sight, muttering to himself, only to return within a minute clutching a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He broke the seal, poured himself a large measure and gulped it down.

  ‘Ahh! Now that’s a man’s drink, not like that wine and champagne muck they’re serving in there.’

  He poured a refill and set the tumbler on the desk counter.

  ‘You should get yourself one of these,’ he snorted. ‘Must be boring as hell in here.’ His tone had shifted to patronising, the closest Julius Rubai came to friendly when addressing one of the servants.

  Simon squirmed inwardly. He preferred Julius’s arrogant tone. At least that was more honest. None of the club staff enjoyed dealing with this rich man’s son. He was demanding, rude and did not seem to understand the concept of respect.

  The sound of footsteps hurrying up the steps from the car park drifted in through the open door. Julius moved to check on the newcomer. Simon was not unpleasantly amazed to see a lightning change of expression show on Julius’s face. Tortured rage might have been his description, if he had had time to reflect. Before he could, he picked up the unmistakable voice of the young farmer from the flower farm on the shores of Lake Naivasha. Simon had known three generations of the McCall family and liked them all.

  Julius had been shocked to see coming up the steps towards the entrance that muscular, rolling gait he had been familiar with since he was seven years old. He was seething with a mixture of anger and panic. Since his school days up in Pembroke House, the name McCall had always spelt danger.

  ‘You bastard, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Charming! Excuse me, Mr Rubai, I want to check the family pigeonhole.’

  Tom had long understood the unnerving effect his presence seemed to have on his old school colleague. He did not glory in the fact, but it had always been hard to resist the little digs that would send Julius’s temper soaring.

  ‘The club is out of bounds tonight and you know it!’

  ‘Oh, not again! Look, Phil will be along in a minute. You must remember Phil. He’s got a letter signed by the committee. Says we can come in. Trust a lawyer to find a way around a problem.’

  Simon smiled and nodded his head. The McCall boy had got it right. There was the copy of the docket on his desk, given to him by the club secretary.

  ‘Why have you come here tonight?’

  ‘It’s our night for squash. Friday night.’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘You won’t leave her alone, will you?’

  Tom hesitated and looked away. Julius, aware that Simon would be tuned in to every word they said, motioned f
or Tom to move back from the door. For his own reasons, Tom was happy to comply, but having withdrawn no more than ten metres, turned on Julius.

  ‘Listen, Mr Rubai and get this straight. I wouldn’t do anything to spoil this night for her. God knows why she has gone for a loser like you. But it’s her choice and I respect it. Have you bloody well got that?’

  ‘And you can keep your foul tongue for the likes of your friend Coulson.’

  ‘Foul tongue? You’re losing it, old chap!’

  ‘Don’t you “old chap” me! This isn’t one of your colonies any more. We do the bossing about now!’

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it, but you don’t own this club, yet!’

  ‘And you have to prove what a clever little chap you are, so you come here to try to spoil our evening.’

  ‘Pure bullshit! How could I spoil your night by collecting our mail just as I do every time I come to this club? Am I going to piss in the drinks or something?’

  ‘Typical! Rebecca should see you now.’

  ‘You’re right, Rubai. Coarse and crude, but why is it that just being in your company brings out the worst in me?’

  ‘So, will you leave now?’

  ‘Of course I will, when I’m good and ready. First, I’m going in there …’

  ‘I forbid you!’

  ‘You haven’t got your heavy boys around you now. You wouldn’t want to mess up that smart white coat rolling about in the dust with scum like me!’

  ‘Don’t worry about my coat. We’ll sort this for once and for all.’

  Simon had left his desk and watched the exchanges of the two angry men with dismay. It crossed his mind that he might save the day by offering to check on the McCall pigeonhole, but fear overruled the possibility, fear for himself and his job. He would be in dangerous territory. Everyone in the club knew some version of how this Rebecca Kamau had suddenly ditched Tom McCall for Julius Rubai.

  That evening, for the first time Simon had been close to her as she entered the club. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he understood why two men might fight hard to get her. In his eyes, she had made a crazy choice, but what did he know about women? He had never married, never really got on with any of his five sisters. But he saw clearly that all these angry words would do no good.

  ‘Too late, Bwana McCall, too late! Better go down into town with your friend and find a quiet bar.’

  Simon hoped that this wild talk of fighting would come to nothing. There was a brief silence. Perhaps he should speak up, let them know that someone was watching, be a distraction. Once again fear got the better of him. And Julius, for one, was finished with words. Without warning, he strode off past Tom and down the grassy bank to a gap in the hedge that opened out onto the golf course. Tom followed him into the semidarkness.

  In mounting panic, Simon hurried across the empty lounge and peeped into the party room. As he had hoped, there was a Rubai man on the door. His whispered message was soon transmitted into the ears of the Big Man. The result was immediate. The broad smile on the host’s face changed briefly to a frown, but, regaining his composure, he rose from his chair and crossed the room towards the open door. His progress was swift but measured.

  In seconds he was hurrying down the steps in the company of half a dozen of his best boys. Simon stood at the door and watched the beams of torches as they haphazardly searched the darkness for the two young men. The first shot rang out from somewhere deep into the course. By the time the second shot was heard only seconds later, Simon was reaching out for his phone, barely conscious of the shouts coming from the Rubai group out on the course and the uproar close by as the scores of guests rushed out of the dining room to follow where the now focused beams of light drew them on.

  Simon’s call to Nairobi Hospital for assistance was soon done. Afterwards he sat riveted to his chair, trembling, with his eyes closed. Two more shots, a surge of noise and then sudden silence increased his fear and his anger with himself for being such a coward. There might be someone dead out there and minutes ago he had had the opportunity to have prevented whatever had happened. In the middle of his deep anxiety, there was one thing he knew for certain. He would never willingly share the story of the events that had unfolded since Julius Rubai had left his engagement party to demand the keys to the club drinks room.

  The long silence outside was finally broken. There were voices in the car park. He hurried to the door and looked out. He was stunned by what he saw. Rebecca Kamau was unmistakable, but why was her dress torn? Why was she crying? One other member of her family he recognised for sure. Her father was moving with slow, powerful strides following lawyer Coulson to the bwana’s car. In his arms he carried the limp shape of a man’s body. Simon bit his clenched fist and let the tears flow. In his cowardice he had allowed the good young farmer of Londiani to lose his life.

  Chapter Two

  wo mothers were united in grief. Two eldest sons had been in mortal danger. Twice in four months Tom McCall had come close to death. Julius Rubai lost his life to a bullet from his own gun on what should have been the happiest day of his life. On the evening of May twenty-fifth on the fourth green of the Muthaiga Golf Club two shots rang out. Guests at the engagement party in the dining room rushed out to find two young men lying on the clipped, damp grass. Tom was bleeding from a wound in his thigh. Julius was dying after an attempt by a bodyguard of Julius’s father to seize the gun had gone badly wrong.

  The young men had been boys together at Pembroke House, a boarding prep school in up-country Gilgil, and had never got on. Julius, son of a rich and powerful father, was used to getting his way and hated the farmer’s son’s popularity. Fair-haired Tom had an easy charm and was happy with his life. Julius was never really at ease with the very English ways of the school. He could not understand why no one made a fuss of him or saw him as something special.

  One evening towards the end of Julius’s last term there had been a clash over house rules in the shower queue. Julius tried to show Tom up in front of the boys standing in line with their towels draped around their naked bodies. When Tom refused to cooperate, Julius tried to grab his shoulder but only managed to scratch the flesh and draw blood. The fight was short but vicious. Ben Boyd, the duty master, had managed to pull them apart and gave them a severe warning. Within two hours the anger and hate bubbled over again and, while the rest of the senior school were working quietly at their prep, they were tearing into each other under cover of darkness down on the playing fields.

  Twelve years later, their two lives slammed into each other on a deadly collision course. Traditional Kenyan wisdom would have described what happened as a fate sent by the gods. Rebecca and Tom were deeply in love and over all prejudices and objections, save one. Five years before, Julius had chanced to see Rebecca performing at a concert at the Bomas Centre and lusted after her ever since. In a fury of frustration that he could not persuade her out of this stupid infatuation for the arrogant, little white bwana, he made barely veiled threats about the consequences of what she was getting herself into. Rebecca, terrified and unable to share her fears, realised that to save Tom she must sacrifice herself. It was a secret she must keep to herself. Her desperate action would be misunderstood by those whom she loved most. She would not be able to tell them the truth and she would hurt them. But as long as Tom was safe, she would be content and there would be a kind of peace. She was ready to become the wife of Julius. The shedding of Rubai blood did not bring closure.

  Two mothers were united in grief, but the pain was not equally shared. Both struggled to stay afloat in a whirlpool of emotions. Maura McCall could not hide her joy that her son had survived, nor could she shake off a sense of guilt for this blessing. For Sally Rubai the passing of the days did not bring healing for her loss. She simply became more used to the merciless reality.

  It was five months later when Maura finally persuaded Sally to leave her Karen home to travel to take tea on the veranda of Londiani. The two women had not been out of c
ontact in the time since that fateful May night. There had been letters, mostly from Maura’s side, but it was in the telephone calls where the bond began to grow strong. At first, the conversations were punctuated by long silences and focused on the May night, but gradually they were able to talk about other things. The silences became shorter and the range of topics wider. There was more and more of what Alex, Maura’s husband, described as ‘woman talk’ and moments of uninhibited hilarity when Sally’s gravelly, sexy chuckle rang down the line and brought tears to Maura’s eyes.

  It was a balmy afternoon when Sally’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes pulled up on the driveway close to the three steps leading up to the veranda of Londiani. Soon four women were sitting around the table spread with a blue cloth laden with silver and the Royal Worcester tea set. There was a fifth woman present who should have been seated, too, but Angela Kamau could not yet bring herself to accept that she was more than an ordinary servant in the McCall household. Rebecca had managed to talk her mother into swapping her Big House clothes for a pair of pink slacks and a close fitting white blouse. As Maura watched Angela returning to the kitchen after delivering milk and sugar to the table, she remembered for the umpteenth time the words of their neighbour, Bertie Briggs, about the smart sexiness of Somali women, ‘the best lookers in Africa’. It was obvious from where Rebecca inherited her looks, the tall, full figure, the well-sculpted almost oriental facial features and one song from her father, Stephen, would have told anyone that his rich bass-baritone voice was special and that his genes would have had a big part in creating the extraordinary soprano sound of his firstborn.

  The coming together of these women had been an awkward one. The scars of violence ensured that this would be so, in spite of the warmth they all felt for each other. It had been the men in the Rubai family who had brought Tom McCall close to death twice, but it was Julius, Sally’s firstborn, her special boy, who had lost his life on that May evening.